


all i ever wanted (was it all)

by stitchcasual



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, Graphic Violence, Modern Mafia AU, Other, additional tags to come probably, background caspar/linhardt - Freeform, background felix/annette, background felix/dedue, canon is my playground and I have removed the monkey bars, canon typical violence (but add firearms), description of sensory deprivation, graphic nightmares, silver snow route but sideways
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29148552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/pseuds/stitchcasual
Summary: Five years ago, tensions between the three most influential crime houses in Fodlan came to a  head and culminated in the largest turf war the city had ever seen. Now Byleth, a mercenary who’s sold their services to each of the houses at one time or another, emerges after years of silence as the head of the Church of Seiros, resurrecting an old, impotent house and flipping people who once belonged to the other houses. They look like they’re on a mission to reestablish the Church as the powerhouse it used to be, but are their motives really so clear cut?A Silver Snow route mafia AU
Relationships: Catherine/Shamir Nevrand, Dorothea Arnault/My Unit | Byleth
Kudos: 3
Collections: The Three Houses AU Bang





	1. The Rose-Colored River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Church secures Myrddin, the Lions strike a deal, and the fight for Gronder begins

“And what’s to stop me from killing you to get back in good with the Eagles?”

“Oh, two very simple reasons.” Catherine’s smile loses none of the easy quality it’s had for the entire conversation so far. She’s used to being threatened like this, has had guns in her face more times than she can count, but she’s always walked away. The people waving weapons at her? Not usually so lucky.

Today’s candidate is just another small fry dealer who thinks that with a gun in his hand he’s more important than he is and can therefore dictate terms of protection to the Church. He’s the last on the list for Catherine to hit, and once he falls in line with the offer she’s carrying, she can get out of contested territory and back to home base, let the ground troops swell in to keep Byleth’s promises to the people. She’s too important a piece in the end game, or so Byleth told her at the beginning of all this, which means she’s no longer on the front lines. She’s grateful and misses it all at once.

Catherine shoves her hands into the pockets of her only slightly wrinkled maroon trousers. It’s so hard to keep them pressed all the time, and she’s given it up as a lost cause. Not like this guy or those like him have been paying enough attention to judge her for it, and at least her shirt, white linen and rolled up to her elbows, is in better shape. Byleth will notice though.

“One, you don’t want things to go back to the way they were. That sucked. Eagles running through all the time, telling you when and how you could conduct your business? Not the way to treat your friends. And two? You don’t want to die.

“See, the worst mistake you can make is to assume that just because someone approaches you by herself that she didn’t bring backup. Say hi, Shamir.”

Catherine gestures with her head as a red tracking bead appears in the center of the man’s chest. He startles, jerking to the side and backing up a step, then stiffens, frozen by the realization that the dot had stayed in precisely the same location on his body despite his movements. His eyes dart around, searching in vain for the sniper on the other end of the scope.

“You won’t find her,” Catherine says, as though remarking on the partly cloudy sky. “My partner doesn’t need the targeting laser; really, she prefers to work without it. So much simpler to take people out when they’re not expecting it. But that’s not how the Church operates with our allies.”

_Convince the people that we need them,_ Byleth had said when Catherine started out on this mission, _and they’re more motivated to join. Makes them feel important._ Byleth had grinned then, their eyes narrowing. _Makes them sloppy if they plan to revolt._

The dot disappears but the threat remains, and Catherine and the dealer get down to brass tacks. Thirty-five minutes later, Catherine walks out of Myrddin, more than ready to leave that neighborhood behind and get back to central Fodlan and Church headquarters. As she turns down a side street to skirt around the high-rise condos (and enemy territory) of Gloucester, Shamir materializes at her elbow. She has a plain black duffel bag thrown over her shoulder and a neutral expression on her face. Catherine grimaces.

“Shamir, what’s—”

Shamir reaches out and pulls the radio from Catherine’s ear without a word. She bends over it as they continue to walk, the short cut of her dark hair obscuring her eyes. After a few blocks of silence, she sighs and hands it back.

“Your com was cutting out,” she offers by way of explanation. “Get a new one at base; that one’s shot.”

Catherine fits the device back in her ear for now. Better there than a wrinkled pocket. “If I was cutting out, how’d you know when to turn the laser on?”

“Please.” Shamir doesn’t roll her eyes, but the tone of her voice does it for her. “How long have we been partners? I always know when you’re going to try something stupid.”

“Hey! It wasn’t stupid: it was a calculated tactical decision.”

“Uh huh.”

“You know, you don’t have to back me up if you think my ideas are stupid.”

Shamir tilts her head to look over at Catherine, staring at her until she drops her eyes to the sidewalk. Even after years with Shamir as her partner, Catherine can still be rendered flustered and speechless by the simplest glances from her. The terrible Thunder Catherine, leader of the Church’s forces and bane of the Lions back in the day, and all it takes from Shamir is a raised eyebrow and Catherine would do anything she wants. Catherine kicks at a rock that escaped a piece of landscaping, frowning. 

“Hey.” Shamir bumps her shoulder into Catherine’s. “I’ve got your back.”

With the closed distance between them, Catherine’s hand knocks against Shamir’s, and Shamir slips her fingers through Catherine’s. Catherine lifts her head, taking in the late afternoon sun as it starts to set between the buildings around them, then turns a broad smile on Shamir.

“Yeah, alright.”

By the time they make it all the way back to Church headquarters, the sun has already set. Deep shadows lie across the path up to the old monastery, and they both have to step close to the gatehouse and its small circle of light in order to be recognized and allowed to pass. Thousands of years ago, the monastery at Garreg Mach had been a thriving and bustling place, the heart of religion on the continent and home of the archbishop. These days there are no priests or bishops on the grounds, just the Eisner family’s employees. The monastery has been converted into space for the family business, which means hedge fund management and a hobby vineyard to most people. To those in the know, like Catherine and Shamir, the money and wine are a front, albeit a lucrative one, for the true business of running the underground.

Or, at least, their small part of it. The Church hasn’t had a large piece of the pie for years, despite the best efforts of the previous house head. After the battle of the three houses five years ago, however, the current head saw a ripe opportunity, and they worked quietly in the shadows for several years to bolster Church forces and secure dealings with who knows whom. Byleth Eisner isn’t the kind to divulge their plans to everyone underneath them, relying instead on a tiered need-to-know system that at least usually sees Catherine in the know about most things. And since most of her duties are guarding Byleth, that’s a good thing.

She passes off her busted radio to the watcher at the gatehouse, who will call around to the appropriate people and get it taken care of. Now that she’s on Church property, it’s less important that she be wired for communication since she’ll be seeing her main point of contact face-to-face in just a couple minutes.

The walk through the monastery isn’t incredibly long, but it does wind through a few impressive halls, their tall ceilings and elaborate columns and molding a testament to the many thousands of dollars the Eisner family has poured into the restoration and preservation of such an historic building. There have been two crews in the place within the last year, touching up little pieces here and there that only Seteth and Byleth themself had even noticed were seeing more wear than strictly acceptable. If anyone on the construction crews thought it odd that most of the people wandering around the monastery grounds didn’t seem to be the gardening or money-crunching type, they were well paid enough to ignore it.

Catherine and Shamir round the corner of the hall leading to the conference room, and Shamir tenses, her hand gripping onto Catherine’s for just a moment to halt her forward progress. Before Catherine can ask why, Shamir nods her head to the door of the conference room and the two figures exiting. One of them is a familiar sight, the shocking blue hair enough to give Caspar away in most circumstances, but the other person Catherine hasn’t seen in quite some time. He’d worked with the Church a little some years back, but he’d come from the Lions and returned there when Dimitri finally assumed command after long months of dithering on whether he should or not. Byleth had thrown a party the day after they learned of Dimitri’s ascension to head of the Lions, saying they always knew he had it in him and that maybe now things would get a little more interesting around the city.

Gilbert looks aged, but not in the way Catherine feels the rest of them do after five years. His exhaustion shows clearly in the lines of his face and the persistent grays in his well kept orange hair. Trying to keep up as second in command to a man in his prime is not doing Gilbert any favors. Catherine watches the way he walks down the hall, searching for any other signs of weakness. That he’s escorted by Caspar means he’s a guest of the Church for as long as he remains on the grounds of the estate (and doesn’t cause any trouble), but as soon as he passes the gatehouse he’s an enemy again, and Catherine does not intend to be caught flat-footed at any future confrontation with the man. She remembers him as a capable and implacable foe and will not do him the discourtesy of underestimating him, no matter how much he seems to have changed.

She exchanges a nod with him as he and Caspar pass where she and Shamir have stood aside to make room for them in the hall, and raises a hand to acknowledge Caspar’s enthusiastic wave. As soon as they’re past, Catherine and Shamir turn as one and continue down the hall.

“That left knee doesn’t look entirely stable,” Shamir says when they’ve gone fifteen feet. Catherine just hums in agreement as they approach the door, and the guard admits her and Shamir with a respectful tilt of the head.

Tasteful art of beautiful landscapes on the walls doesn’t make up for the lack of windows in the room and no amount of soft light lightbulbs under opaque glass lamp shades can replace actual sunlight, but Catherine understands why Byleth chose this room as their operations hub when they first moved into the monastery. It would have been her suggestion as well: no other room in the place is this insulated from any outside wall or as difficult to access. It suits for the purpose of safety, and Byleth and their employees have done their best to make it functional as well. 

As Catherine and Shamir enter, Byleth looks up from where they stand with Seteth at the head of a large U-shaped table in the center of the room. They have their hands spread across some papers on the table’s surface, tapping with one finger to draw Seteth’s attention, and they jerk their chin to indicate for Catherine and Shamir to approach. Seteth bends close to see, smooths his dark goatee in thought, and scribbles something down on a notepad nearby. Catherine can’t see what it is they’re discussing yet, but she’d bet Shamir her dinner that it’s something to do with why Gilbert was just here.

The door opens again, and a set of footsteps paces up the other side of the table from Catherine.

“Well?”

The tone is terse and impatient, and Catherine knows who the voice belongs to without needing to turn her head and confirm that Felix Fraldarius had entered the room behind her. He removes his long, black coat and tosses it onto the back of a chair, exposing the gun holstered at his hip and several knives in easy to draw places. Catherine has never seen him with less than three weapons on him, and she assumes he sleeps with them, as she does.

He rolls up the sleeves of his deep blue collared shirt and crosses his arms, staring at Byleth as though he expects them to stop what they’re doing and answer him immediately. They don’t stop or answer for another minute, clarifying a point to Seteth first by drawing one finger around in circles on the map, but Felix waits. He knows as well as Catherine does by this point that you don’t rush Byleth Eisner if you want to be answered anytime in the next week.

“How’s Myrddin?” Byleth asks, giving Catherine their full attention. In a move that is designed, Catherine knows, to remove their temptation to multitask, they remove their hands from the maps in front of them and shove them in their pockets. Their light gray trousers are, as Catherine suspected, impeccably pressed, and she runs a hand down one thigh in a futile attempt to smooth the fabric of her own pants.

“Finished the rounds today,” Catherine says, motioning for Shamir to pull their map out of her bag and hand it over. Shamir is, as ever, half a step ahead of Catherine, and as soon as Catherine extends her hand, the tube that contains the map hits her palm.

Catherine grins and winks at Shamir, popping the lid of the tube and unrolling the paper as she crosses the last few steps between her and Byleth. She adds this map to the pile already on the table, setting it where Byleth indicates with a lift of their chin and weighing down the edges with a pocket knife and mostly empty glass of water that were sitting nearby.

“Started here,” she says, tapping the map as she speaks, “two, three weeks ago. Been a bit of a slog getting through the whole neighborhood, but we followed the route you suggested and ended here this afternoon. We took out most of the resistance ourselves, but I already transmitted the list of anyone we couldn’t handle to Seteth. Assuming he dispatched people promptly like he always does, then Myrddin is ours and just waiting for a few conspicuous Knights to show up and patrol and make the residents feel like they chose the right house.”

“Which they did,” Seteth says, frost coating his words. “The dissidents you directed our attention to have already been crushed. Myrddin now understands what happens to those who oppose the Church.”

Byleth nods, digesting this information as they always do: in silence with their eyes unfocused and staring into the middle distance. Their head tips back and forth subtly, as though they’re having a conversation with someone. Catherine takes the moment to glare at Seteth, just a little, for the gentle insinuation in his words that she’d intimated anything less than Church superiority with the end of her report. Seteth, for his part, pretends to ignore her.

“Felix,” Byleth says. 

“What.”

“I want your analysis on Gilbert’s request.”

Byleth closes their eyes in a long blink, then looks over at Felix, staring for a beat too long for comfort. They glance down at the maps in front of them, then resituate their hands in their pockets and wait. Felix recrosses his arms.

“I told you when we started aiming for Myrddin that they’d come crawling eventually.”

“Analysis, Felix. Not opinion.”

Felix huffs. “They’re being honest. Gilbert wouldn’t hesitate to lie if Dimitri asked it of him, but the boar’s too distracted by his thoughts of revenge that he isn’t thinking strategically right now. All he wants is to get across Myrddin so he can aim for Edelgard; he doesn’t care about anything else.”

“The Deer?”

“Haven’t factored into his calculations in months. I have to keep reminding him that they’re out there, and even then he waves an arm and says he knows I’ll watch his flank.” One lip curls into a sneer. “The number of times he’s told me that I don’t need to stay by his side and then he goes and says something like that.”

Byleth blinks a few times, then says, “Will they cause a problem if we let them cross?”

Lion territory in Fodlan comprises the northwestern quadrant of the city, extending toward where Garreg Mach sits in the center but leaving a healthy no-man’s land between them. If Dimitri wants to pass the monastery grounds and move through the neighborhood of Myrddin, his goal is likely just on the other side, given Felix’s assessment of Dimitri’s relations with the Deer. That narrows things down significantly.

“No. They’re too weak to. The Lions haven’t been on firm footing for years now.” 

_And they won’t get back there the way they’re going,_ is the unspoken sentiment on Felix’s face. It’s the reason he joined the Church a few years ago, or, at least, the reason Catherine knows of, the one Byleth had offered her and Seteth the day they casually brought up the idea of having a spy within the Lions’ house and then informed them that they already had such a person. Catherine has watched him closely ever since, waiting for the day when he inevitably betrays them, but his loyalty to Byleth has thus far held true. He speaks of his old house with contempt and scorn and shows no sign of wanting to truly rejoin their ranks, but there’s a weariness underneath it all that Catherine can see sometimes. It shows in the way he sighs when speaking about Dimitri and the close set of his shoulders when Byleth mentions skirmishes with Lion spellcasters.

Byleth removes a hand from their pocket and waves it at Felix. “Escort them through Myrddin then. Assist them in whatever fool's errand they're undertaking on the other side, but come back alive.” They raise one eyebrow and continue, “I don't care if it means abandoning them on the field. I need you here.”

Felix’s throat works. He doesn’t glare at Byleth but his lips curl slightly. “What about—”

Byleth waves their hand again to cut him off. “Anything I’ve already promised you, I will hold to. Now, unless there's anything else, get out of here: we don’t want them to get suspicious. And remind Dimitri that I expect him to pay up after this.”

Felix gathers his coat and slips it on as he heads for the door. He pauses before exiting and turns to give a nod to Byleth that’s almost deep enough to be a bow. Byleth returns the gesture as Felix steps through the door, closing it behind him.

“Catherine, I need you and Caspar to take teams through Myrddin in advance of the Lions. We don’t want anything unfortunate to happen if our new neighbors get spooked by their presence. I’m assuming Felix will advise Dimitri to take them through in waves, so coordinate with Caspar on who gets which one. Felix will radio in his timing, but I want you ready and watching just in case he doesn’t this time.”

Byleth fishes their phone from their pocket, frowning at the notification there before slipping it back. They press their fingertips into the maps on the table and lean forward toward Catherine and Shamir.

“They’re heading to Gronder. It’s the only place that makes sense if Dimitri is so bent on engaging Edelgard that he’d ask us for a favor. Shamir, I want you set up on the outskirts before they get there. Watch everything but do not engage. If you need to, take Bernie or Cyril as backup. I’ll get you a room with a view and text you the address. Be there in a week.”

Gronder Field, an aspirational name for a park in the middle of a city, is also the largest somewhat open area in Fodlan. The site of numerous clashes between houses already, it’s something of a tradition to hold some of their more large scale conflicts there. Byleth doesn’t understand the fascination with it, but it serves their purposes well enough to have at least two of the houses occupied with whatever drama will unfold there. With Shamir on spy duty, they’re confident they’ll get a fairly clear picture of what happens. And, with any luck, Dimitri’s little fixation will result in a more favorable position for the Church after the other houses whittle their numbers down fighting each other.

“Dismissed,” Byleth says, grabbing their phone again. “Catherine, grab Caspar on your way out and tell him what I told you. I have something else I need to deal with right now.” They wiggle the phone in the air. Catherine nods, and she and Shamir turn to leave as Byleth holds the phone out so both they and Seteth can read whatever message came in.

As Catherine reaches the door and pulls it open for Shamir, she hears a soft snort from Byleth. “Think he can pull it off?” they say. Any response from Seteth is cut off by the door closing behind her, and Catherine puts any speculation about what’s going on firmly out of her mind as not her job until Byleth brings it directly to her attention or it shows up on her doorstep.

* * *

Darkness. All-consuming and pervasive, squeezing at their lungs like a vice, coating their open eyes so they can’t see the world in front of them. They try to steady their breathing, but each inhale is a struggle. They know what this is, they know where they are, even though it’s impossible for them to be here again. Everything about the security around the old monastery is set up to prevent _them_ from getting on the grounds, much less inside the building, but Byleth can’t move their arms or legs now. A small piece of their brain panics.

_They_ came back to finish the job. Over five years of biding time, but time is nothing to _them._ Byleth thrashes against whatever holds them down, but all they succeed in doing is wiggling a little in their restraints. The scream that bubbles out of their throat makes no sound in the void. A void of no light, no sound, and as they hyperventilate, less and less air. Their last exhale escapes them before they can think to hold onto it, and their mouth opens and closes futilely as their body spasms in small, constrained jerks until finally they die and it doesn’t matter anymore.

Byleth’s eyes snap open, and they count the glowing plastic stars on the ceiling as their breathing slowly evens and they come back to themself. Twenty-seven stars in all, placed there by Dorothea sometime between the first nightmare she’d witnessed and the second, scattered into a vague semblance of the nighttime constellations. Their shape doesn’t matter much, Byleth doesn’t recognize the shapes when they wake like this, but their placement encourages calm, and by the time Byleth has counted them all, they’ve regained control.

They wiggle each finger and toe, relieved when everything moves, and roll over in the bed to check on Dorothea. She usually wakes with them, but tonight her side of the bed is empty, the covers placed back over her spot so it doesn’t grow cold. Thoughtful. She’s always been like that, concerned with the wellbeing of others, even those she doesn’t know. Byleth has watched that compassion take its toll on her over the last five years but she still hasn’t given it up. It’s admirable though misguided.

Dorothea stands by the window, her curvy figure in its sheer nightgown silhouetted by the dim light of the moon and far away street lamps. She’s pushed the curtains to either side of the window for a better view of the city beyond. Byleth’s room has arguably the best visibility on the estate, and the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows that make up half of one wall are most of the reason why. Their room is also the only one on the third floor, which puts them high enough off the ground to be reasonably confident that assassins won’t be able to sneak in and snipers won’t be able to get a bead as the closest buildings of a height with them are too far away. What Dorothea is watching tonight is lost on Byleth until they crawl out of bed and drape a robe across their shoulders, padding quietly over to the window to join her.

“More fighting,” Dorothea says. She doesn’t turn to face Byleth, nor does she seem surprised by their presence. She must have heard them wake up.

Byleth follows her eyes, picking past the buildings of Myrddin to Gronder. A few dull flashes light the buildings for a second, then they go dark again for a minute, flaring back farther away. If they strain their ears, Byleth can hear pops like fireworks in the space after the lights. So the houses are at it. There’s probably a notification from Shamir about it on their phone. They’ll get to it later; there isn’t much they can do about it from here anyway, and Shamir has her orders to observe and not interact.

Byleth folds their arms over their chest and puts their back against the window. They frown as they watch Dorothea as she watches the skirmish. They’ve never been adept at comforting her when violence erupts around them. Fighting, pain, blood, even death, these are things Byleth has been acquainted with for most of their life, growing up as the only child to a mercenary for hire. Their father gave them as normal a life as he could for a while, but when your kid shows a talent for picking up martial skills and that’s what your life depends on? You train them up as best you can and open a family business so you can watch each other’s back.

“Felix will be okay,” Byleth says, perhaps the one comfort they can offer in this.

A muffled _whump_ sounds from out the window, and Byleth twists their head to check out of the corner of their eye. A thin column of smoke rises from the distant neighborhood, and they grimace. Bad timing all around. They’d figured when the fighting started it might get nasty but they’d at least hoped that no one would do anything too wild while Dorothea was at the window. A vain hope, and they wonder if Felix really will be okay. 

Dorothea finally turns her head to look at Byleth, her beautiful, open face the picture of impotent grief.

“He will,” Byleth insists. “He’s too stubborn to die.”

Dorothea laughs at that, a breathy exhalation more than true laughter but Byleth will take whatever they get. They know that everyone dies eventually and that only the truly fortunate get to choose how it happens and only the lucky manage it without pain. Felix has never been incredibly fortunate nor very lucky, judging by what he’s shared with Byleth in the years since his defection, but for Dorothea they’re willing to put aside what they know and pretend it can all be otherwise.

“Give it a week, maybe, and he’ll be back. I know how much you two like antagonizing each other.”

Dorothea’s mouth falls open in shock. “I do _not._ If anything, _he_ antagonizes _me_ when I’m simply going about my day in proximity to him.”

“I have seen you specifically move rooms to be nearby when he’s on a tear.”

Byleth raises an eyebrow at Dorothea, as though daring her to deny their words. She huffs but a smile curves her lips and a little sparkle of mischief hits her wide green eyes.

“It’s not my fault he’s easily riled up,” she says, tilting her chin up in an affectation of innocence. “Honestly, you’d think a spy would have better composure.”

“It’s part of his charm.”

Dorothea snorts.

“If he suddenly gained composure, everyone would know something’s up. He’d blow his cover so fast,” Byleth says. Dorothea nods sagely, and for a little while it seems like she’s forgotten about the conflict happening beyond their sphere of influence. The lines of worry on her forehead ease and her shoulders relax. Then another small popping sound draws her attention back out the window. Byleth presses their lips together, out of things to say or platitudes to offer.

There are few enough people in the world who Byleth would like to spare from the more gruesome details of what they do; they generally subscribe to the belief that everyone eventually will need to learn what kind of cruel world it is out there, and the sooner the better, within reason. But within minutes of meeting Dorothea, they’d wanted nothing so much as to build a tower around her, to keep her safe and secure and away from the machinations of people like them. They had also learned quickly that, while Dorothea had an innocence to her, she was all too aware of the cruelties of the world.

She had rejected Byleth, the first time they asked her out. They’d been working for the Eagles with their father at that point, stationed within easy reach in the Eagles’ holdings in Enbarr. In a fit of boredom, they’d wandered the city and ended up in line at the opera. They’d paid for the ticket when they reached the front of the line, less out of nicety or embarrassment at having taken up space and more out of curiosity for the striking woman featured on the giant poster behind the ticket counter.

They must have been one of hundreds of suitors that evening at Dorothea’s stage door. Dorothea had smiled and thanked them all for coming, directing anyone with gifts to the porter, who handled the situation with a strained grace that indicated this happened a lot. Byleth left and returned to the apartment they shared with their father, consumed by the presence of a woman who no longer stood near them. She just had that way about her.

Dorothea had shown up the next day, entering the room where Byleth and their father stood with Hubert, discussing terms and conditions on the next assignment the Eagles were offering. She hadn’t even knocked, just opened the door, calling out to “Hubie” in that lovely sing-song voice of hers. She’d completed her business with him, scanned her eyes across Byleth without a trace of recognition, and left again. Their father completed most of the negotiations with Hubert; Byleth burned with the need to be near Dorothea again.

They push off the window and cross the few steps between them and Dorothea, wrapping their arms around her waist. They rest their cheek against her shoulder, not quite tall enough to be able to place their head next to hers. There isn’t anything they can say now that they haven’t already, and besides, they aren’t one for worthless words. All they can offer her is their presence, solid and implacable, and hope that it continues to be enough.

Dorothea crosses her arms over Byleth’s, and they stand there at the window for a while longer until Dorothea has seen enough and gently nudges them back to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [@irlapplepi](http://twitter.com/irlapplepi) on twitter!
> 
> you can find me on [twitter](twitter.com/stitchcasual) too xD


	2. The Impregnable Fortress - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout from Gronder, trouble in paradise, and the infiltration of Merceus

Shamir returns to the monastery first, the plain black bag that houses all her equipment slung over her shoulder and a young man similarly outfitted following in her wake. She makes her way into the dining room where Byleth and Dorothea are having their breakfast with, Byleth assumes, the force of her resting bitch face, as the two Knights posted outside the door were under orders to not let anyone in. Byleth doesn’t get enough time with Dorothea as it is, running essentially three businesses tends to take up a lot of their days and nights, and they’re covetous of what they have. Which is why, instead of getting up to take Shamir’s report elsewhere, they simply sigh and gesture her and Cyril to the extra seats at the table. Shamir looks at Dorothea and back to Byleth once, the movement enough to convey her question on the matter, but Byleth waves her concern away.

“I saw some of what went on from here,” they say, spearing a few blueberries onto their fork. “Fill in the blanks for me. Who won?”

Shamir shakes her head. “No one won. You get that many people together and throw them at each other and no one comes out on top. The Lions lost the most: I saw Dimitri fall myself. The Eagles retreated with their generals intact, but they hemorrhaged foot soldiers. That won’t be rebuilt quickly. I’m not entirely certain what happened with the Deer; I didn’t think they’d even show up. One moment they were there, the next most of them were gone. I heard rumors that Claude died too, but I don’t have anything to back that up.”

Byleth hums and drags the blueberries in figure eights around their plate. “When you say you saw Dimitri _fall_ …”

“Bullet to the heart. Dropped to the ground. Didn’t get up.”

“Just checking. I’m disappointed: I thought he’d provide some sport later, but I guess not anymore. So, aside from the Eagles, the lucky damn bastards, who survived?”

Shamir glances aside at Cyril, who startles slightly at the attention that shifts to him. He runs a hand through his dark, curly hair and clears his throat.

“Well, I saw Felix quit the field pretty soon after Dimitri got shot. He had a couple people with him but a few others stayed behind. I don’t rate their chances of survival very good: the Lions’ position got overwhelmed pretty quick after they lost Dimitri.”

“Pardon me, but could you describe the people who stayed behind?”

Byleth turns slowly to look over at Dorothea, who sits calmly with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on Cyril. They think they know why she’s asking, and they wave for Cyril to answer the question when he looks at them for permission.

“Let’s see…there was an old guy and a couple ladies with short hair and a tall guy with red hair who wouldn’t let one of the ladies get very far away from him.” 

Dorothea frowns and nods, though Byleth can hear the quiet sigh of relief from her. Whoever she was listening for must not have been listed.

“Oh! And one of them was a real big fella, white hair. Real unhappy with whoever killed Dimitri.”

“I see. I was hoping that wouldn’t be the case, but I suppose I should have known better. Thank you, Cyril.”

Byleth can hear the withheld tears in her voice, and Cyril must be able to as well, because he sits there looking stricken, like he’s done something wrong. Shamir rests her hand on his shoulder to reassure him, and Byleth nods, affirming him and dismissing him in the same motion. With a hand gesture, Shamir indicates she’ll return later, and she steers Cyril from the room. 

Dorothea doesn’t cry once they’re alone again. She just turns, eyes bright with grief, to Byleth, and says, “I’ll tell Ashe.”

Right. The kid they’d picked up just a few months back in Ailell when Byleth had made the risky decision to meet with a representative from the Deer to discuss coming to a mutually beneficial arrangement. The foundry district had been chosen as a semi-central location between the two groups, with the added benefit of being a place no one liked to visit with any frequency. It had thus come as a surprise to be attacked by a cadre of Eagle sympathizers who, according to Felix’s intelligence, had betrayed their ties to the Lions. For Felix to meet Ashe, a former Lion himself, in the choked and over-hot byways of Ailell was an awkward circumstance, two traitors on opposite sides exposed for what they were, to each other at least. In the end, Felix, with some assistance from Byleth once they realized what was going on, managed to convince Ashe to turn coat once again and work with the Church.

An optimistic kid, still smiling and cheerful whenever Byleth saw him around the old monastery grounds. They couldn’t quite tell if it was a truthful aspect of his character or an affectation but weren’t sure it really mattered either way. He’d mentioned a few times in passing that he had someone he cared for still with the Lions, hoping he’d be able to save him one day, before the Church and Lions finally clashed. 

“Wait until we get Felix’s report. Just to be sure.” 

It’s a cruelty, Byleth knows, to ask Dorothea to keep this news to herself for the indeterminate time before Felix shows back up and confirms or denies what Shamir and Cyril have already reported, and it isn’t even for kindness’s sake that they request this. Ashe is resilient: he’s survived everything in his life to this point and he’d survive being told his lover is dead only to realize they’re actually alive. That isn’t what Byleth is concerned about. Rather, they simply wish to ensure they act on the correct information the first time, rather than rushing to conclusions and having to backtrack.

Neither of them eat much more after that, and Byleth gets up a few minutes later to find Seteth and continue laying the groundwork for the plans they’ve been discussing for years.

* * *

Felix comes to the monastery a few days later, demands to see Byleth, and leaves a few minutes after his audience. He returns with a short, red-haired woman who stays close to his side, looking somewhat anxious and pale as she glances around. The Knights on the monastery grounds clear out of their way as Felix marches them back through, making room as much through curiosity of who the new woman is as fear of the expression on Felix’s face. Though he always seems to be perpetually scowling just as a matter of how his face is arranged, the look on his face today is thunderous, promising swift, wrathful retaliation to anyone who dares disrupt him.

Byleth receives the two of them into their conference room, and though the guards stationed outside the door strain their ears, they can’t hear anything. The room has been soundproofed too well, and the guards pull away, disappointed. Good gossip is always worth someone’s dessert in the dining hall. Their patience is rewarded later when the door opens again and Felix exits, followed by the red-haired woman. He takes her hand and, in a voice softer than anything they’ve ever heard from him before, says, “Come on,” and leads her down the hall toward the wing of rooms Byleth keeps for their trusted retainers.

The two guards dine very well after their shift indeed. 

Information flows more quickly once Felix is returned, and everyone within the monastery’s walls learns of Dimitri’s fall and the subsequent dissolution of the Lions. The whole place is hushed for a day following that news: never in living memory has one of the Fodlan houses been completely disbanded. The Church came the closest to drifting into nothingness, but they only languished in obscurity rather than being wiped out. It’s something that no one ever really thought could or would happen, especially not in their lifetime.

Literally overnight, the balance of power in the city shifts. It’s subtle and only those who know what they’re looking for will see it, but those in the know can tell: there’s chaos on the horizon. With a power vacuum in Lion territory, any small-time gangster with a complex will attempt to seize control of whatever bits they can grab onto. 

“We don’t have much time,” Byleth says, circling a finger around the part of the map that had, until so very recently, belonged to the Lions. “Patience is not a virtue among these types, and anyone who thinks they can get away with something is going to try it.”

To their left at the head of the table stands Seteth, his arms crossed and a deep frown creasing his forehead. On Byleth’s other side, Catherine presses her lips together and stares down at the map. 

“Not to discount anything you’re saying, but since when are we worried about what happens in Lion territory?” she asks. 

The frown on Seteth’s face gets deeper. Catherine hadn’t even known it was possible for someone to frown that deeply, but Byleth nods like Catherine has asked a question worth their time. With their pinky finger of their left hand on the Lion bit of the map, they stretch their middle finger east to tap a spot north of Gloucester and their index finger down to the southern reaches.

“The three houses,” they say, “have more or less controlled Fodlan for hundreds of years. They’ve each had their moments in the spotlight where one had more territory than the others, but they’ve always maintained this balance.”

They lower their ring finger to the map, touching down in the center of the city with the second knuckle. “The Church has never been a major player, not in the way they wanted to be. They made some efforts over the years, but largely they’ve been an ineffectual force in the power struggle between the three.” 

They hold up their other hand, palm out, to Catherine. “I’m not discounting anything you or Rhea did. Really, to hold onto any territory at all with a force as small as you had is nothing short of remarkable, and I owe much of our present success to your earlier efforts.” 

Catherine folds her arms across her chest, not fully mollified but willing to let the argument pass her by for now. 

Rhea. It’s been weeks since Catherine last heard Byleth mention her, but Catherine hasn’t spent a day without thinking about her. The leader of the Church before Byleth took over, Rhea is the person to whom Catherine owes her life. She’d been next to nothing on the streets of Fodlan before Rhea took her in, and she’d eagerly taken up the mantle of bodyguard to protect the person who’d saved her. But Rhea has been missing for five years now, ever since the battle of the three houses, and they are no closer to rescuing her than when they first began after Byleth assumed leadership of the Church. Catherine is a soldier, a fighter, and any efforts she’s made on her own toward finding Rhea have been abysmally short-lived and yielded less than nothing in results. She trusts Byleth, they’ve proven they have the Church’s best interests at heart, but she’s growing impatient at the lack of progress.

“Rhea never had an opportunity like this. An entire quadrant of the city has turned into open season, and we would be fools to not take advantage of it to bolster the Church’s standing. However.”

Byleth lifts their fingers from the map, picking up all except their index finger, resting in the south.

“The Eagles are a threat. If they see us making a bid for that space, they’ll move to stop us, and they might be able to succeed, depending on what kind of force they send against us and where. We can’t secure that much area without sending the majority of our people, which would make our holdings here an easy target for Edelgard and her strike team.”

Seteth picks up from there. “The only advantage that we have right now is that we’ve received intelligence that Edelgard was gravely injured during the battle. So far, the Eagles have turtled up, pulling back into Enbarr to protect their main base. They aren’t extending into any territory ceded by the Lions’ defeat, even though some of it borders their own, and they haven’t moved into any of the Deer’s territory either, even though Claude has disappeared.”

“The ghost of Claude is an effective deterrent,” Byleth says, their mouth twisting into an enigmatic little smile. Catherine turns to look at them, but they just wave their hand and don’t elaborate.

“In any case, what makes the most sense is to first deal with Edelgard directly. She’s the most dangerous opponent we have left. Dimitri isn’t an issue and neither is Claude, and if we’re able to subdue Edelgard, it will be easier to move into Lion territory to secure it.”

“Will you then consider what I’ve been asking you?”

The look Byleth gives Seteth makes Catherine think this is an ongoing point of contention between them, one that she’s been left out of thus far. Seteth’s mouth is fixed in a stubborn line, and despite the sparks practically flying out of Byleth’s eyes, he doesn’t back down. Finally Byleth sighs, crossing their arms over their chest and frowning. Well, not so much frowning as pouting, and Catherine remembers just how young Byleth is for what they’ve already accomplished and what they’re setting up to face.

Seteth looks like their mildly disappointed father figure, the way he’s watching them now, and Byleth regresses into the role of his upstart child. Nevermind the fact that, were it not for Byleth, the Church may have actually fallen before the Lions did. Catherine knows enough to appreciate that, even if they don’t always agree with Byleth’s methods. Without Byleth, they wouldn’t have Caspar on their side, and despite the concerning predilection he has for simply charging straight into any fight, he’s an effective combatant and has turned the tides on more than a few encounters.

Come to that, any number of people now wandering the halls of the old monastery wouldn’t have switched sides were it not for Byleth. Their previous life as a mercenary, working for anyone who’d pay them enough and offer an interesting enough contract, has proved to be most useful in collecting allies. Whether or not all of them are completely trustworthy, Catherine doesn’t know, but from her conversations with them, they seem to be mostly on the level. At least, as much as one can be in this line of work. She trusts them to have her back, for now, but she won’t turn it on them unless she has to.

The fact remains, however, that Byleth is younger than Catherine by seven years and younger than Seteth by two or three times that. They are also, unless Catherine misheard the gossip, without any family left in the world, their father having…passed away in the line of duty. She does wonder if that incident was what caused Byleth to abandon their neutrality and pick a side, though she has no idea why they would have chosen to throw their lot in with the obvious underdog.

“I told you before, Seteth: that’s not what I want.”

The petulant tone to Byleth’s voice is softened somewhat by the undercurrent of exhaustion. Catherine makes a note to ask them if they’re getting enough sleep; she knows things have been a little hectic since Gronder, but she won’t have the leader of the Church dropping from something as silly as sleep deprivation.

“What you want is irrelevant! This is for the good of Fodlan!”

Byleth sighs again, and Catherine perks up at that.

“What do you mean, the good of Fodlan?”

Seteth grimaces and Catherine raises an eyebrow. Not something he wants to share with her, it seems. She settles onto her heels and waits; there’s no way she’s leaving now until she gets some answers.

Byleth interlaces their fingers and twists their hands opposite directions but doesn’t speak. They’re hunting for the right words, Catherine’s familiar enough with that expression on their face, and she’ll let them have that time if it means she gets her answers. Byleth pulls their hands apart and shoves them into their pockets, straightening their back and arranging their face until they’re the picture of the house leader most people are familiar with. Catherine’s known the posture is an affectation for a while, but she’s never seen it donned right in front of her eyes before.

“If no one powerful enough steps in to fill the vacuum left by Dimitri and Claude, the city will be plunged into chaos as everyone else vies for the spots. I will take their place and bring order to the streets.”

Byleth deflates a little after that, shrugging their shoulders. “At least, that’s what Seteth wants me to say. I haven’t decided yet.”

Catherine lets a beat of silence pass before she asks, “Take their place how?”

“As it sounds,” Seteth says. “We will bring the Lions and the Deer underneath the authority of Byleth and the Church, saving the people of Fodlan from the inevitable conflict that would erupt were we to simply let this situation resolve on its own.”

“Mhmm,” Catherine says, crossing her arms. “And is this before or after we rescue Rhea? You know, the rightful head of the Church? The one under whose authority Byleth is even acting in the first place?”

Byleth reaches up to scratch the side of their nose, raising an eyebrow at Seteth as though to let him know he can field this question.

“I have the benefit of knowing Rhea for longer than either of you,” Seteth says. “I am confident that she would not oppose this move and may in fact welcome it.”

“But we don’t know.” Catherine throws her hands up in the air. “Rhea is still alive out there, as far as we have been able to discern, and you’re making plans to supersede her authority before you even figure out how to rescue her!”

Seteth now stares back at Byleth, who sighs and shakes their head. “I have a source who’s confirmed Rhea’s being held by the Eagles at their headquarters in Enbarr. She’s alive, though we don’t know what kind of condition she’s in.”

“Who’s your source?” Catherine demands, and Byleth shakes their head again.

“I can’t divulge identity, but suffice to say it’s a reliable source. One of the few I actually trust.” 

Catherine doesn’t look convinced.

“Someone without a stake in this city’s politics, all right? Or, at least, not a big enough one to make it worth throwing a wrench into the gears. The information is solid.”

“Then why aren’t we acting on it?”

“We are.” Byleth pinches the bridge of their nose. “Any further conversations about setting anyone up as leader of the combined houses will wait until after we’ve handled Edelgard. That’s what we’re supposed to be meeting about today, Seteth: how do we take down the Eagles, not how do we install Byleth to a seat they don’t want.”

Seteth frowns lightly but nods. “I’ve been giving it some thought, and I may have an idea. It’s a bit…unorthodox, but—”

“Caspar will love it, then.” Byleth’s lips twitch up in a grin. “Please, lay it on me.”

* * *

Catherine would have thought that sending in the Church’s top enforcers would be a bad idea, one tantamount to simply walking over, waving their arms, and yelling, “Hey! We’re here to infiltrate this building!”, but somehow neither she nor Caspar are recognized when they report for their “new jobs” a couple weeks later. She supposes the fake names and high industry turnover rate help. It probably also helps that they’re dressed in black and white uniform clothing rather than the combat wear they’re often seen in or the more colorful suits they wear when a fight’s not seconds from breaking out. Caspar’s hair is still blue, though, but so many kids these days seem to dye their hair striking colors that it hardly stands out. It even looks good, a pop of color swimming in an otherwise homogeneous sea. And Caspar, to Catherine’s surprise, is an excellent waiter. If he’s less versed in the menu and wine pairings than the rest of the staff, that hardly seems to matter to the people at his tables when he smiles and jokes with them and promises that they’ll like everything they get from the kitchen because at least he’s not the one cooking.

Catherine watches him from the front of the house where she takes names from reservations and passes groups off to be seated, and Byleth watches her from where they sit at a table with two other Church members. Catherine had hotly contested Byleth’s involvement from the start but was unable to convince them to sit this one out. Byleth likes to get their hands into the day-to-day runnings, claiming that they can’t expect any of their people to do anything that they’re not prepared to as well. At least they agreed to wear something approximating a disguise and stay at a table within Catherine’s field of vision: that makes her job of keeping them safe a little easier.

At this hour, things are winding down as it approaches closing time, and only a few parties are left. Of the people still in the establishment, fully three-quarters are Church members waiting for the signal to move. Caspar waves at Catherine the next time he catches her eye, grinning as he backs up through the doors to the kitchen. It’s on him to find, without a shadow of a doubt, the supplies stored here that are on their way through to Eagle hands.

Merceus, as a restaurant, is perhaps the nicest establishment Fodlan has to offer. It’s not Michelin-starred, but it does feature chefs from around the region and a rotating menu that requires an exorbitant amount of imported ingredients from other areas, which makes it the perfect cover for the Eagle’s attempts to hide their own supply lines. Precious few people would choose to look twice at the shipping manifests for a restaurant like this: Byleth is one of those few.

They’ve had their eye on the Merceus for a while, they said when they briefed Catherine and Caspar on the assignment, but for various reasons (mostly amounting to “the Eagles have too strong a presence”) were unable to do anything about it until the rout at Gronder changed up the dynamics. Now taking the restaurant and destroying the stock inside is a pivotal piece of the plan to defeat the Eagles. And get Rhea back. Byleth hadn’t said anything to that effect, but Catherine appended it herself.

She texts Shamir and lets her know that they’re proceeding with the plan as scheduled. She’s looking forward to finishing this assignment up and getting back to Garreg Mach: two weeks of sort of undercover work and living in a nearby hotel is all well and good, but she misses her room in the monastery, misses the person she shares it with. Once this is over, she’s going to insist on at least an hour’s worth of cuddling from Shamir. Any more than that and Shamir would refuse without consideration, any less and Catherine wouldn’t be satisfied. Their relationship is an odd balancing act but, Catherine thinks with a smile, absolutely worth it.

She joins in with the rest of the Merceus staff as they begin the end of day cleaning, starting at the empty tables farthest away from the guests still lingering over their drinks.

“How long do you think it’ll take them to get the hint?” Catherine asks the busboy piling dishes at the table next to her.

He looks up, stares at Byleth’s table without flinching, then bends back to his task. “Them? Fifteen past close.”

“Ugh.”

“Mmhmm.”

Byleth catches Catherine’s eye the next time she looks up, throwing her an arched eyebrow to let her know they could hear that conversation. They seem amused about it rather than offended though, considering they know the reason these tables are still seated and not leaving. 

A car horn sounds outside, and the remaining guests who aren’t Church get up and wander out of the restaurant to stumble into their ride home. Catherine and her closest coworker share a victory high five. One table down, three to go.

Caspar reappears from the back after Catherine’s cleaned half of her allotted tables, shaking his head and looking mildly bewildered, his eyebrows drawn in tight over his nose. Catherine waves her rag at him, and he startles into movement, coming to take over for her. She turns away from him before he can tell her anything: they’re too close to everyone else and besides, she’d seen all she needed to on his face.

Catherine hooks a thumb in Byleth’s direction and pulls a face at the rest of the crew. “Someone has to do it or they’ll never leave; I’ll take short straw.”

She gets a few thumbs ups from her coworkers for luck and nods at Caspar on her way to the other side of the restaurant. As she crosses the floor, she texts Shamir another quick update (“still looking”). The response, in typical Shamir fashion, is brief and to the point: “Look faster.”

Catherine sets a gentle hand on the top of the table Byleth sits at, bending down to speak with them. With her back to the rest of the staff, she isn’t worried about any of them reading her lips and ruining the plan, though she’s pretty positive at this point that none of the front of house staff are actually members of the Eagles. Byleth looks up at her as they sip at their glass, letting the liquid touch their lips before falling back untasted. No wonder they’re still working on their drink: they haven’t been drinking it. Byleth smirks as Catherine stares at their glass and nods at her to report.

Catherine relays what she can of Caspar’s failures at locating the supplies, and Byleth purses their lips in thought.

“I think we need to make a move,” Catherine says, tapping a finger on the table. “Someone else has to look for this stuff, so it might as well be all of us. Wait for my signal, then get up like you’re about to leave.”

Byleth nods, and they and the two Knights with them make their preparations while Catherine gives the other tables their instructions. In short order after Catherine signals, the front of the house staff are restrained and moved behind the bar where they won’t be seen by too curious passersby. Only one had shown some kind of spirit and refused to cooperate with Catherine; he now sits nursing a split lip and likely a mounting headache and will likely think twice about causing further trouble for them. Seems like she was right about the staff. 

Catherine leaves one guard on the hapless waitstaff and gestures to her people to fan out and search the restaurant thoroughly. Byleth she directs to her side, and they smirk lightly but obey her pointed command. Catherine doesn’t trust that there won’t be other, more competent individuals somewhere else on premises or close by who can be called in about the disturbance at the Merceus, and she’d rather have Byleth with her and not have needed to take the precaution than to leave them somewhere else and regret the decision. She’s also hoping that with the additional human effort, they’ll be able to find the supplies and get out fast. Their goal here isn’t wholesale destruction of property but rather the forced redistribution of it.

Caspar has laid out the chef and one of her sous chefs before Catherine and Byleth even make their way into the kitchen, but he’s being harried by the other five or six people who work back here. He shrugs his uniform jacket off, pivoting on the balls of his feet to sweep the jacket up and around, neatly trapping the blade of a knife as its thrust at him. The person wielding the weapon overbalances as Caspar tugs forward, and Caspar drops them to the ground with a hard knee to the gut. He grins at Catherine and Byleth as they enter, sweeping an arm at his opponents as if to say, “help yourself.”

Byleth lunges forward to grab the knife from the person on the ground, cracking them in the temple for good measure before standing back up, twirling the blade, and darting toward the closest enemy. Catherine sighs and moves to flank Byleth, covering their side as they advance. There’s a measured grace to the way Byleth swings the knife, slashing in tight, controlled arcs, and with Catherine to one side and Caspar to their other, they make short work of the kitchen resistance.

“There’s nothing!” Caspar tells Byleth as they frown and brush ineffectually at the blood splatter on his shirt and bowtie before giving it up as a lost cause.

Caspar rubs at a cut on his arm, one of a few the kitchen staff managed to land on him, a long line that should probably see medical attention sooner rather than later, and frowns at the blood that collects on his fingers.

“I’ve checked everywhere I can get twice! They must have moved everything out already, but I don’t understand how they could have known we were coming.”

Byleth’s frown deepens, and they pick at the sleeve of their suit jacket where it’s been speckled with the blood of the kitchen staff.

“There’s something here,” they say, certainty lacing their words. “If not the goods, then something else. I’m going to check the manager’s office for paperwork.”

They’re out the door before Catherine can stop them, and she sighs. It isn’t like Byleth needs much protecting, they took out half the staff back here and Catherine knows what else they’re capable of, but she still feels better when she’s able to do it herself. She won’t lose another leader of the Church if there’s anything she can do about it.

She presses her lips together and looks around the kitchen. Everything about the restaurant in the weeks they’ve been working here has looked completely normal, and nothing’s changed. She’d be tempted to call it bad intel, but she knows how hard Byleth worked to verify that everything was as they had heard, so she’s inclined to believe that it’s more a result of something outside their control. It doesn’t change the fact that they still need to complete their mission. Byleth’s got their idea; she and Caspar need to find their own.

She pokes her head back out into the dining room and calls a few of her people over to deal with the bodies in the kitchen and get them tied up and situated with the rest, the ones who are still alive, at least. That handled, she steps back into the kitchen, thinking about how best to go about this.

“All right, split up,” she says, gesturing to Caspar. “With all of us looking, we’re bound to find something. I want you to roll this place: move everything away from the walls, check inside every pantry and refrigerator. No stone unturned!”

Caspar salutes and flings the door to the first walk-in freezer open. Catherine huffs a tiny laugh, grabbing a meat tenderizer from the rack of tools hanging over one of the kitchen workstations. She hefts it and nods. It should function for what she’s thinking of, and with that, she stalks through the kitchen and into the first of the offices in the back of the restaurant, on the hunt for any suspicious looking walls.

Catherine can feel her phone vibrate in her pocket a few minutes later while she’s smashing through the wall behind the manager’s desk. Likely a text from Shamir asking for an update, one Catherine will give once she’s done with this task. She’d swapped Byleth places in the office as Byleth walked slowly out and down the hall toward the front of the house, their nose buried in some ledgers they must have pilfered from the desk. Happily for Catherine, a section behind the desk looked to have been recently plastered over, and it’s crumbling away easily under the less-than-careful ministrations of her improvised weapon. She grabs at some chunks of the drywall with her hands, ripping away large sections at a time. And then she stops, and stares at what had been until so recently covered up.

Bricks of C-4 line the wall of the office, stacked neatly between the true wall and the false wall she’s destroyed. Catherine reaches into her pocket for her phone without looking down at it and snaps a picture before she turns and walks out of the office. She forces her gaze to focus on the nearest Knight and grabs his shoulder.

“Gather everyone you can back here in the next minute and take the service entrance out. Rendezvous at the monastery.” With a calm that doesn’t penetrate her quaking heart, she says, “If anyone takes too long, leave them behind. That’s an order.”

The man salutes, confused, but turns and dashes to find any of his compatriots. Catherine speeds up her steps just a touch, looking for Byleth but not seeing them in the hallway. They must have already made it to the dining room. She slams the doors to the kitchen open to yell at Caspar, “We’re done here. Come on.”

Caspar drops the tub of cucumbers he’d been holding and moves to join her without question. Catherine never thought there’d be a day she’d be thankful for the hero worship Caspar had confessed to her when they first started working together, but here she is, grateful that her words are all it takes to mobilize the young man.

“We’ve still got a few minutes,” he says as they walk down the hall together.

Catherine shakes her head. “Not anymore. This whole place is packed with explosives we had no intel on, so unless you know how or when they’ll be set off, we’re not staying inside a ticking bomb.”

Caspar looks from Catherine back through the swinging doors that separate the dining area from the back of the house. He repeats the motion, his head jerking in a way that makes Catherine’s neck ache.

“But we still have people back there!”

“And if they’re smart, they’ll listen to the runner I sent to collect them,” Catherine snaps as she vaults on top of the bar to look down at the assembled staff members of the Merceus. Most look up at her with varying degrees of confusion or fear on their faces and she leans into that, hefting the meat tenderizer in one hand as she crouches on the bar.

“Anyone know about the C-4 packed into the walls here?” She gives it a beat, letting her question sink in, then smacks the meat tenderizer against her palm. Several of the staff jump at the sound. “You have less than thirty seconds to answer me if you want to live, so you might want to give it a shot.”

Mostly all she gets are startled, confused noises or pleas for help. One of the waiters just starts laughing quietly to herself as she rocks back and forth. Catherine scans their faces for any hint that one of them knows more than they’re saying (or crying, as the case may be), but finds nothing she can work with. She signals to her people to pack up and go, remembering Shamir’s text when her phone vibrates again.

> **S:** look out, someone headed in back entrance
> 
> **S:** GET OUT

“ _Out!_ ” Catherine yells. “Go! Move!”

The handful of people in the dining room scramble to obey, darting out the front doors as quickly as their feet can take them. The bound staff behind the bar scream and writhe, attempting to move but unable to do so and not sure what’s even going on. Catherine is a few steps behind her people as she jumps off the bar, eyes intent for Byleth so she can make sure they get out of the building. Caspar runs the other way, back through the doors to the rest of the restaurant.

“I gotta find Byleth!” he shouts over his shoulder. “I didn’t see them out here! They gotta know!”

Catherine hesitates for the barest moment, torn between dashing after Caspar to join him on his search for Byleth and heading out the front door anyway on the chance that Byleth had already left, but in the end the choice is taken from her as the walls of the Merceus crack and buckle and blow apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *jazz hands*  
> love ending a chapter on a good explosion!
> 
> part 2 of this will be up next weekend or the one after, depending on how much time i'm able to wrangle from my schedule for final edits
> 
> as always, in the meantime you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/stitchcasual)!


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